


Sand rains down and here I sit ; Down in a hole, feelin' so small

by Splat_Dragon



Series: Whumptober 2019 [15]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: "Claustrophobia", "Pinned Down", Angst, Arthur Whump, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Canonical Character Death, Corpses, Day 16, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Major Spoilers, Panic Attacks, Prompt 16, Serial Killer side quest, whumptober2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2020-12-23 16:51:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21084656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splat_Dragon/pseuds/Splat_Dragon
Summary: Whumptober 2019, #16: "Pinned Down"Bad Things Happen Bingo: "Claustrophobia"Arthur should have known not to attempt a good deed. Itneverwent well for him.And this time, he couldn't even blame it on anyone else. Only truly awful timing.





	1. Down in a hole and I don't know if I can be saved

Arthur found the first corpse not far from Valentine.

Well, he wouldn’t really call it a corpse. Part of a corpse, maybe. Either way, considering the vultures circling overhead, and the way it had been hung over a decently traveled path, he didn’t know how it wasn’t found sooner.

_ ‘Look On My Works!’ _ the rock had said, scrawled next to the lower half of the torso.

He didn’t know why he stuck his nose in. He’d reported the corpse to the sheriff, and any other time he’d have considered that his good deed for the day and been done with it.

But the sight of the corpse, that map, and the letter he’d found on the ground… and the writing had said _ works_, not _ work,_ so there were more corpses, surely? 

Maybe it was curiosity, or some long lost morals, wanting to make up for some of the murders he’d had no choice but to commit. But he hadn’t thought to give the map to the sheriff, and so he mounted his horse and set out for Strawberry.

  


And there he found the next corpse. As mutilated as the first, with a map well, part of one, in its mouth. Holding it side by side with the first, he nodded—just one more, if he was right, and he’d have the whole map. He notified the Strawberry Sheriff, too, gun at the ready for fear of being recognized, before heading down to Rhodes.

  


Some part of him was morbidly amused that he found the final corpse on the Braithewaite estate. Granted, he’d be happier if there was no corpse at all but, if he had to pick somewhere to find a corpse, that old bitch’s precious estate would be up there.

The last corpse found, he matched the maps up, and

_ ‘Can you find me?’ _

the sick bastard wanted to be found, apparently, and it set him on edge. He felt he should go get back-up—Charles, maybe?—but, no, he had taken this on himself, and he wasn’t going to drag Charles into anything. And anyone else would just laugh at him, he thought. So he told the Sheriff (the man blanched at the sight of him, didn’t make a movement to arrest him or pull his gun, and he could have laughed) that there was a corpse to collect, and headed out.

He knew exactly where to go, recognized the shack marked down on the map, and if he rode his horse at a lope he could make it before sun-down. 

  


And he did, long before, actually. Checking his pocket watch, he had about an hour until sun-down, and he planned to be well gone before then; he didn’t much care to be trapped with a serial killer in the dark.

Arthur patted his mare on the neck, tied her to a nearby tree that was out of sight of the shack, made sure he had plenty of ammunition and that his guns were loaded before approaching the shack, gun at the ready. He’d checked, and there were no horses or wagons in the area, but that didn’t mean the man wasn’t inside.

The shack was broken down, blown out, and so he stepped carefully around it, sweeping his gun as he went. It didn’t take him long to find the entrance to the basement, reaching down to tug on the handles, nodding when he found them unlocked and quickly yanking them open, stepping back and aiming his gun into the darkness.

Nothing moved, but there was an awful blast of rank air, stale and faintly reeking of blood, death and decay. His stomach churned, and Arthur took a moment to wrap his bandanna around his face—it wouldn't keep all of the smell out, but it helped to mute it—before making his way down into the basement, every instinct screaming _ ‘Run! Run! Run!’ _

  


It was definitely a serial killer's lair, he couldn’t help but to think. There were bones scattered on the ground, and he didn’t stop to determine if they were animal or human or some mix of both; body parts hung on butcher’s hooks, and scattered on the shelves were bloodied pieces of clothing, and some part of him knew they were trophies.

Grimacing, he switched his gun to one hand, and began to take photos. He needed to go get the sheriff, if he didn’t get ahold of the serial killer, but he needed evidence to show Malloy to convince him to come with him. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to spend his film on, but it was a worthy cause.

  


There was a groan, and Arthur stilled.

How long had he been down here? He glanced at his pocket watch, but it was too dark to tell. 

Another groan, and Arthur looked up, drawing his gun. That was _ far _ too loud to be coming from a man walking on the shack. _ ‘Time to go,’ _ he thought, and pocketed his camera, moving to jog towards the stairs, but there was another groan, much louder than the others, an awful crashing sound, and then he knew nothing at all.

  


When he woke, it was so dark he feared he’d gone blind.

He squinted, blinked a few times, confirmed that his eyes were open. But still it was dark, he didn’t see black but saw nothing at all, not even sticks or stones or the ceiling who knew how far above him. “‘lo?” he croaked, trying to gather his bearings, trying not to panic.

Arthur licked his lips, anxiety building in his chest, eyes darting this way and that, and then—light?

Light!

Oh, thank god!

So he wasn’t blind, oh, oh thank god. He refused to be another Uncle, just lazing around camp, unable to help them.

  


His eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark, and he squinted them shut for a long moment, before opening them again. He could barely make out a small, small hole up above him, light streaming through a hole, gleaming on the dust motes.

And—he shifted his arms—something uncomfortably clammy and cold and tacky pressed against his hand. “G’d,” he slurred, trying to draw his hand back, stilling as something above him groaned loudly.

What… had happened? He’d been trying to leave, he remembered, when everything went dark.

Something dug into his back, and Arthur braced himself up on his elbows—or, at least, tried to. He cried out a gasp, finding even that hard, feeling as though there were a dead horse sprawled across his chest. 

_ Boudiccea had been shot by one of the lawmen, and Javier was leaping off of Boaz to shove her off of him _

He managed to wrench his arm loose, pressing against what felt like a big chunk of stone? that pressed painfully against his ribcage. His fingers pressed against… that was wood, wasn’t it?

Had the basement collapsed on him?

Everything pointed to yes. From the rock and the wood that left him breathless, to the corpse that kept pressing against his hand.

“Sh’t.”

Was Callia okay? He could only hope she was, he’d tied her down a fair distance away from the shack after all.

Agh, shit, his legs hurt. Something was sitting on one of them, and he tried to shift his leg. Blinding pain shot up his spine, a breathless scream tearing loose from his chest, broken, broken, it was definitely broken.

Okay, he had to do this carefully.

  


Arthur brought his hands up, bracing them against the debris that sat on his chest. He left his broken leg still, dug in his other heel as best he could from his awkward position, and began to push

and pushed

and pushed.

His back scraped against the ground, he felt sharp stones tear into his flesh, but he didn’t stop pushing until his arms were screaming and his lungs were burning. Only then did he drop his arms to the ground, flinching when his hand hit—yeah, that was definitely another hand, clammy and tacky and cold.

  


He… he was stuck.

Oh, _ god_, he was trapped.

He’d never been one for being bothered by small spaces, but as the debris pressed heavier and heavier on his chest, as his breathing sounded louder and louder in his ears, only challenged by the thundering of his heartbeat, as the basement felt warmer and warmer, sweat trickling down his face, he began to feel more and more panicked.

Oh god, he was never getting out of here, was he?

Arthur tried, again, to shove the debris off of him, gasping, finding it harder and harder to breathe, but it didn’t so much as budge. Dropping it, he choked on a sob, adrenaline rushing through his veins, wanting nothing more than to run and to hide and to curl into a ball, and gagged, turning his head to the side and heaved stomach acid onto the floor, gasping and struggling to catch his breath again.

“H’lp,” he gasped,

His fingers were going numb, was the debris cutting off circulation? Was he going to make it out of here, only to end up having to have Hosea cut off his fingers from gangrene? His toes now, too, oh god what if he had to have his toes cut off as well?

And his chest was hurting, stabbing pains that didn’t have anything to do with the debris, god was he having a heart attack? Was he going to die of a heart attack here, alone, never to be found, just one unclaimed corpse among who knows how many? He’d always wanted to die protecting his family, not in a ridiculous mishap trying to do good for once.

“Help!” the word was little more than a rasp,

“HELP!” the sound tore out of his chest, so loud it burned, and he waited, hoping, _ praying_, that someone would hear him,

But there was no response.

“Please, someone!”

Arthur had never been someone to beg, but he had never been someone to be claustrophobic, either. He had also, however, never been trapped, alone, in the basement of a serial killer, crushed beneath a fallen-in shack, with countless mutilated corpses.

“Someone, anyone, help me, please!” he pushed, futily, at the debris,

“Hosea!” Hosea was far, far away, down at Clemens’ Point, probably sweet-talking Lady Braithewaite, “Dutch!” and Dutch was far away, too, probably making plans or talking his way into the sheriff’s pocket, “Please! Please, I’m here! Please, help me!”

There was no answer, and his throat burned from his screaming.

“Someone, please! I’m down here! Please, help me!”

  


He called, and he screamed, and he pleaded.

But no one came.


	2. He made haste to light the whole bundle of matches

“Arthur!”

“Arthur, son, can you hear me?”

Slowly, Arthur blinked. Everything _ hurt_, and he could hardly breathe. Something was pushing down on his chest, and he gasped, trying to draw a breath and finding himself wanting.

“Arthur, where are you!”

_ ‘Hosea,’ _ he tried to say, but all that came out was blood, throat burning as he coughed and gurgled, squinting, dust burning his eyes. The moon shone bright overhead, stars twinkling, and it took him a moment to make out a lantern gleaming, flame flickering against Hosea, the man standing tall as he peered into the hole.

“Arthur, come on son! Throw me a bone here!” the debris shifted as Hosea moved to clamber down, twisting and picking his foot- and hand-holds carefully. 

And Arthur focused, reached deep down inside of himself, strained and strained, felt blood burble up in his throat as he finally managed to call out in little more than a gurgling rasp, “Hosea,”

but it was enough, the lantern swinging around, light making him squint as it burned his eyes. When he opened them again, Hosea was standing over him, youthful face soft with a relieved grin, “Oh son, I was starting to think I’d never see you again.”

He offered his hand, and although it _ hurt_, stabbing pains racing through him down to his bones, let Hosea pull him to his feet, throwing his arm over his shoulders and taking most of his weight. “Careful,” he wheezed, trying for a chuckle that was more a burst of air, “don’t wantya breakin’ yer back.”

Hosea didn’t look up at him, giving him an eyeful of his bright blond hair as he looked at their feet, carefully picking their way through the mess, “Ain’t gotta worry about that, son. You’ve lost weight.” he tsked, shaking his head, and then they were silent as they climbed out of the basement, Hosea adjusting each time Arthur listed, the world dancing around him.

The older man led him over to his horse, Penny standing tall and grazing as he had to be helped into the saddle, clenching his eyes shut when he left the ground, bile rising in his throat. He shivered, even as Hosea mounted up behind him, holding him tight to his chest as he spurred the mare into motion, kicking her down the path towards a camp he’d set up nearby.

Arthur was asleep by the time they’d turned onto the main road.

  
  


He woke up when Hosea pulled Penny to a stop, the campfire already burning bright. Hosea apologized for waking him, helping him out of the saddle and apologizing again when he cried out in pain as bone shifted against bone, walking him over to a sleeping bag and helping him to sit down. Arthur reclined back, closing his eyes, feeling as though he were forgetting something as he listened to Hosea putter around the camp, gathering things, only opening them again when something warm blew against his face.

“Hey Bou,” he wheezed a chuckle, reaching up to stroke her painted face. The mare snorted, and shoved her nose against his face, before moving down to nose at his pockets, looking for treats. Hosea had to push her away to get her to stop so he could have a look at Arthur’s wounds.

  
  


And, yeah, that hurt. Arthur barely managed to stay quiet as Hosea stitched up his gashes and cuts, not wanting to think about where they’d come from—falling rocks and wood and bones, probably—wrapping tight his broken bones. He needed a doctor, but there wasn’t a town nearby and it wasn’t safe to ride so late besides. So he gave Arthur some pain medicine to drink, kneeling down by the campfire as the medicine put his boy to sleep.

  
  
  


He frowned, staring at Hosea.

Something… something wasn’t right.

The firelight ghosted against Hosea’s face, casting his side profile into shadow.

For some reason, Arthur found he couldn’t look away. Hosea’s eyes… had they always been so brown? And since when had he looked so young?

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and he shivered, moving to climb to his feet and regretting it when everything _ hurt_. Hell, right, there’d been a reason he was laying down.

“Arthur?” the older man asked, and Arthur’s gaze looked on his, and he found he couldn’t look away.

_ “I’ve given you enough chances…” _

_ The bang of a gun. _

_ A strangled cry of pain. _

_ A body hitting the ground. _

“You’re dead.” he said, suddenly, realization dawning in equal parts with horror in his chest, seeing the man thrashing on Saint Denis’ cobblestones, blood pooling around him in those endless brown eyes, and Hosea aged before him, no longer half so young, now as old as he’d been when he watched him die.

“I am,” he sighed, reaching out to run his fingers through Arthur’s hair, and the world trickled away in raindrops of black; and then, as though from far, far away, he only barely heard, “and so are you.” as he fell away.

  
  


A lantern shone through the cracks of a collapsed basement, ghosting over bones hidden among rocks, only that strange texture just they could have setting them apart. “Hello?” the sheriff called, frowning from where he sat on his horse, leaning forward. That cowboy that had warned him of the serial killer had directed him here, and though he was late he had seen a horse tied down not far away. So he feared there had been someone inside the basement when it had collapsed (though if it were the killer, it wouldn’t be much of a loss, if you asked him).

He swung down from his saddle, approaching the basement as close as he dared, fearing that more would crumple and bring him down with it. “Is anyone down there?”

The sheriff brought the lantern around again, casting an eerie light on the mess, and there was no denying this was (_'__well,’ _ he thought sardonically, _ ‘had been’ _) a serial killer's lair, even with everything scattered by fallen, rotted wood. Bloodied and faded bone gleamed in the dark, and he flinched when a skull grinned ghoulishly from where it had landed atop a pile of debris.

Still, though, nothing could have prepared him to see the bloodless face of the cowboy sticking out from beneath one of the fallen pillars.


End file.
